_Ship Petrel, of Liverpool, from Quebec, with timeber. Fog for two weeks, and violent gales. Lost reckoning. Took an observation last in lat. 46° 5’ 22”, long. 59° 8’ 2”. Ship waterlogged, on beam-ends, and going to pieces. Taking to boats. Henry Hall, Master._ There was another scrawl that seemed intended for a date, but the boys could not make it out. It looked like “Tuesday, March,” but it might have been anything else. Such, then, was the writing. The captain had believed that the ship was actually going to pieces, and had hurried off evidently in the greatest possible haste, and had probably thrown into the boats a few of the barest necessaries of life. But Bart suggested another theory. It was that the captain had put this writing in the bottle, and had got it all ready to throw over, when perhaps a sail had hove in sight, and thus the bottle had been left in the cabin. Another theory was, that, in his hurry or panic, he had forgotten all about the bottle, which had floated about in the cabin, and been left in one of the state-rooms by the retreating waves. It was evident to all that the captain, “Henry Hall,” had lost his head. In his terror he had believed that the ship was “going to pieces;” whereas nothing of the sort was going on. She might possibly have been on her beam-ends, since he said so, but even here his fears might have exaggerated the danger. Captain Corbet thought that she had been struck over on her beam-ends, and held down by her sails, and, when these were torn away, she had eventually righted herself. “That thar skipper,” said he, sententiously, “was frikened out of his seven senses, and fancied the craft was brakin up. So he rushed to the boats, chucked in a bag of biscuit and a few bottles of water, and rowed away for his life.” Captain Corbet paused for a moment, and looked at the boys with a very singular expression on his face. “And now,” said he, “my dear young friends, do you know what you air and what you’ve ben an gone an done?” “What?” asked Bruce, in some surprise at the captain’s tone and manner. “Wal, only this--you’re salvors.” “Salvors!” repeated Bruce, to whom this word conveyed no meaning in particular. “Salvors!” repeated Captain Corbet, impressively. “Yes, you’ve found this here ship on the broad bosom of the deep, deserted; you’ve took possession--she’s yours.” “Well, what of that?” said Bruce. “For that matter, she belongs to all of us.” “She belongs to all them that bear a hand to bring her into port.” “Into port!” cried Bart, in great surprise.